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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231103">mad woman</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyalex/pseuds/smallerinfinities'>smallerinfinities (ohmyalex)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cunnilingus, Dom Cassian (ACoTaR), Drunk Nesta Archeron, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Minor Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nessian - Freeform, Nesta Archeron-centric, Nesta Archeron/Cassian Smut, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Recovery, Sex Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:34:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyalex/pseuds/smallerinfinities</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nesta Archeron hadn't been sober in months. After the plane crash, she didn't see much reason to be. Living with her guilt, the numbness, her self-realized burning pit in hell, it all seemed easier than moving on. Until Feyre knocked on the door and handed her a card with just a phone number and a name. Amren. The Night Court's best-kept secret. Nesta calls and then finds Cassian at her door. A different kind of therapy. </p><p>"Please do be discrete."</p><p>Escort!Cassian meets PTSD!Nesta. Healing ensues.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nesta Archeron/Cassian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Nesta</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tw: angst, coping with death, sex work, language, smut (obvs)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things were great until they weren’t. </p>
<p>Nesta Archeron had been engaged. She had a father who loved her and a sister she adored. Until the plane crash. Until a faulty navigational system sent her fiancé, her father, and her sister into the side of a mountain on the way to her destination wedding.</p>
<p>She had gone to Hybern early, to get settled and calm her nerves, to plan around the security that Feyre had hired so that Rhys could attend the wedding. Nesta had told her not to bother, Rhys could stay in Velaris for all she cared. She’d gone and set it all up anyway. But it had all exploded when Nesta got the call that her world had ended and all she had left was a sister she resented and a brother-in-law with too high a profile. She was a tragic headline. A fucking media circus. </p>
<p>
  <em> High Lord Rhysand’s sister-in-law left at the altar in tragic plane crash.  </em>
</p>
<p>The press camped outside her Velaris studio for weeks. They’d only left when she had thrown a maelstrom of empty glass bottles out of her windows at them. Empty because she’d come back to Velaris and crawled inside a whiskey bottle and stayed there. She might be more whiskey than person now. The days were passing at a rate she couldn’t gauge anymore. Had it been hours or days or months since she’d picked up the phone in the middle of placing name cards on tables in the reception hall? She didn’t particularly care. Everyone who mattered was dead and being drunk was better than counting the minutes since her future had evaporated. </p>
<p>A knock sounded at the door. </p>
<p>Nesta removed the eye mask she was wearing and squinted at her phone. <em> 7:15 AM </em>. She’d been up all night again, had just laid down to try and sleep. Who the fuck was at her door at this hour?</p>
<p>She knew but she opened the door anyway. </p>
<p>Feyre Archeron, High Lady of the Night Court, was in the hallway looking worried. Well, Nesta assumed she was looking worried. She could only see Feyre’s furrowed eyebrows between the oversized sunglasses and the wide-brimmed sun hat. She had wrapped her red-gold hair, twin to Nesta’s own color, into a low chignon to hide it away from prying eyes. <em> A disguise. </em> Nesta snorted. Feyre Archeron could be noticed in this city by a blind man a hundred yards down a busy avenue. It was the way she carried herself, the easy confidence. No one could mistake her for anyone but their High Lady. </p>
<p>“What do <em> you </em> want?” Nesta crossed her arms over her chest, blocking the view into her apartment.</p>
<p>“Well, to start, a little respect for the person who has been footing your liquor bill for the last eight months.” Her red lips were turned down at the corners, tight. She angled her head past Nesta’s shoulder and crinkled her nose, “God, I don’t even need to see in there to know what it must look like. I can smell it from here. And I can see you.” </p>
<p>Nesta kept her face a mask of annoyance but considered how she must look. Compared to Feyre’s heavy cream sweater and perfectly tailored tan pants, anyone would look slovenly but Nesta knew she'd let herself go.</p>
<p>A while ago, she’d taken to wearing Tomas’ shirts to bed. Then eventually she wasn’t getting out of bed so it was all the time, changing only when she found the strength to shower. Today’s shirt—more like this week’s shirt if she was being honest with herself—was an old striped dress shirt, one Tomas had maybe worn twice with a suit. It now had several stains from whiskey and whatever takeout she had ordered last night. She couldn’t quite remember. Chinese? Greek? </p>
<p>It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Her marriage was supposed to be one of convenience. They had been friends, had both gotten older and then tossed in the towel on dating. Tomas needed a cover for a lifestyle his parents forbade and Nesta...well Nesta wanted to be comfortable. Nesta wanted her sister to stop meddling and leave her alone. At least, she thought she did. </p>
<p>But, no one had known. No one except Elain.</p>
<p>
  <em> It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.  </em>
</p>
<p>Her hair hadn’t been washed in days, it was matted in some places, stuck to her face in others. She knew her eyes were hollow, sunken in and lacking that fire people saw when they looked at her. She’d been avoiding her own reflection for weeks, had even covered the mirror by the door. Months ago, apparently. <em> Eight months </em>. </p>
<p>Had it really been that long? Had she really been moving from bottle to bottle, takeout container to takeout container, for <em> eight whole months </em>? She’d barely left the apartment, had lost her job, happy to exploit Feyre’s seemingly unending pity. Pity she guessed had run out. </p>
<p>Today. </p>
<p>She didn’t care about that either.</p>
<p>“Come all this way to chide me, dear sister?” Nesta curled her lips as she moved aside to let Feyre through. <em> Might as well let her see.  </em></p>
<p>“Thank you.” Her sister breezed into the little sitting area and stopped dead.</p>
<p>Her eyes scanned the room, marking the recycling bin first, overflowing with empty glass bottles. All different labels. Whatever Nesta could find quickest. Then the kitchen counters, filled with boxes of crackers and empty ramen noodle packages, cans of tuna and an open jar of peanut butter, anything that could be quickly consumed with minimal effort. She didn’t <em> want </em> to die, but she hadn’t exactly been concerned with <em> living </em> either. </p>
<p>At last her eyes darted to the corner, over by the window, where a white dress hung from a hunting knife that had been punched through the wall. Straight through the center of the sweetheart neckline. Nesta had lost count of the weeks it had been there. A reminder. A memorial. Little circular burns littered the fishtail skirt, remnants of late nights with too much booze and an ashtray full of half-smoked blunts still on the windowsill. </p>
<p>“Oh, <em> Nesta </em>.” Feyre’s hand came up to cup her mouth. Nesta raised her chin, refusing to feel reprimanded. “I’m sending Alis this afternoon.” </p>
<p>“I can look after myself,” Nesta hissed through her teeth. </p>
<p>“<em> Clearly </em>,” Feyre threw her arms wide and turned in a circle, “you cannot. You know I came here hoping you were getting better. I gave you space, knew you blamed me for what happened. At least partially. But it’s time, Nesta. I lost them too. But I don’t have the luxury of drinking and smoking my way into oblivion on my sister’s dime.” </p>
<p>“Is this just about the money?” Nesta asked incredulously, “I’ll fucking pay you back if that’s what you’re worried about.” </p>
<p>“No, <em> no </em>,” Feyre brushed a lock of hair out of her face, frustrated, “it’s not the money. I don’t care about the money. Neither does Rhys. We just want you to come back to the land of the living.” </p>
<p>“Ah, yes. The royal We.” Nesta sat abruptly on her sunken couch and leaned forward, not caring that she was just wearing a pair of underwear beneath the oversized shirt, “how is dearest Rhys? High Lording as well as ever I presume. Now with better reasons than ever to hate me.” </p>
<p>“He doesn’t hate you,” she said too quickly, wringing her fingers for a moment before she whispered, “we...we missed you at the funerals.” </p>
<p>Nesta’s blood ran cold. Her eyes swam with tears that wouldn’t fall.</p>
<p>“I know why you didn’t show,” Feyre couldn’t look at her, “I almost understand it...but we still missed you. Father was interred with full honors of the Night Court. I’m having a garden planted for Elain up at the estate. You should come see it when you’re ready.” </p>
<p>Nesta <em> really </em>needed a drink. Feyre needed to leave. She couldn’t do this. Not now. Not today. Not ever. </p>
<p>“Get out.” </p>
<p>“Nesta—”</p>
<p>“<em> Get out. </em>” Nesta’s voice was low, lethal. </p>
<p>“Fine,” the High Lady voice was back in full force, “I only really came to give you this.” She pulled out what looked like a business card from her freshly pressed pant pocket, “this might seem...forward. But, I think it might help you. Rhys and I use the service sometimes when we’re looking for something different. I know you won’t go see someone. This might be a different kind of therapy. Tell her I sent you, she’ll know what to do.”</p>
<p>“Fine, fine,” Nesta took the card from her, hoping it would get her to leave faster, “get <em> out </em>.” </p>
<p>“Nesta,” Feyre stopped and took a breath, her hand wrapped around the doorknob, “please do be discrete.” </p>
<p>Nesta furrowed her brow, but nodded. She had been, for the most part. Except on nights she was too blitzed to remember her own name, let alone that her sister was High Lady of this region. </p>
<p>“I’m still sending Alis,” Feyre wrinkled her nose again as she opened the door and strolled out. And that was that. No goodbye. They hadn’t ever been good at those. </p>
<p>Nesta blinked at the door, the apartment suddenly feeling small and cramped. She turned over the card in her hand. It had only a name and a number. <em> AMREN </em> . <em> 202-555-0187 </em> . She flicked it onto the table. <em> Whatever </em>, she thought as she sauntered over to the kitchen and took a swig from the nearest whiskey bottle. </p>
<p>↞↠</p>
<p>
  <em> “Ms. Archeron.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Yes?” The tone of the man’s voice made her drop the place card she had been holding.  </em>
</p>
<p><em> “There’s been an accident. A plane crash,” he hesitated. Her eyes stopped seeing. Her body shivered with a bone-rattling chill despite the summer sun streaming into the room through the open windows. They couldn’t be </em>—</p>
<p>
  <em> “Say it.” Her voice was a breath on the wind.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “There were no survivors.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She didn’t hear the rest. Someone was screaming. A crash, glass breaking, warmth sliding down her leg. A sharp, metallic smell in the air. She couldn’t hear them calling her name, couldn’t feel their fingers gripping her skin, feel the pressure of the towel collecting the blood from the gash in her leg.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> A plane crash, he’d said. No survivors.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Tomas was dead.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Her father was dead. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Elain…she had just planted flowers for spring.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> A fresh scream ripped from her throat. </em>
</p>
<p>↞↠</p>
<p>She woke up with it echoing in her ears, heart pounding. Wrenching the fresh sheets off her clammy skin, she felt for the scar on her thigh, catapulting her back into the present. Nesta hadn’t let them stitch it for days, had wanted to remember. It had almost festered. Feyre had held her down while they numbed and sutured. Most of those days were lost now, either to shock or sleep, she didn’t know. It hadn’t taken long for the drinking to start. </p>
<p>Her head was pounding. Alis had stormed the apartment hours earlier, tut-tutting about the stale stench, throwing open every window. Nesta actually appreciated the fresh air. She didn’t appreciate the old woman’s silent appraisal of her ruined wedding dress. </p>
<p>“Don’t touch it,” Nesta had snapped. Alis had tut-tutted some more, cleaning as she went, but she left the dress alone. </p>
<p>Now, with a clean apartment and nothing to keep her company but her own self-pity, she laid spread-eagle in her bed that felt too big in clothes that felt too clean. Nothing matched her insides anymore. The small, decrepit thing inside of her that shrivelled that day and rejected everything still living. Even herself. She had never been a particularly warm person, but Elain, sweet and beautiful Elain, had made her care about something outside of herself.</p>
<p>She got up to find something to dull her head. A bottle of ibuprofen sat on the coffee table, next to a decanter of scotch. She washed the pills down with the brown liquor and sat on the edge of the sofa, her head in her hands.</p>
<p>The silence pressed her on her eardrums. An oppressive lack of sound, only the barest of sounds audible on the street. Too quiet. For the first time in months it was too quiet. Her head shot up and focused, eyes darting to the card neatly placed in the corner of the table. </p>
<p><em> Amren </em>. </p>
<p>What had Feyre meant, “<em> a different kind of therapy” </em>? Hell would have to freeze over before Nesta crawled onto a couch to talk about her feelings, Feyre had admitted as much. So what was this? </p>
<p>She picked up the card and flipped it over. Simple, white, just the number in embossed black. The curiosity was going to kill her if she didn’t just call the number. She reached for her phone, hauled out from between the couch cushions by Alis earlier. It had been dead for weeks. She’d given up on ignoring the condolences calls and just let the battery drain. Probably why Feyre had shown up yesterday unannounced. She swiped past all of the missed call and voicemail notifications and pulled up the keypad. </p>
<p>It only rang once. </p>
<p>“Yes?” A clipped, cold voice answered the phone. </p>
<p>“Uhh, is this Amren?” </p>
<p>“Speaking,” her voice didn’t soften, “can I help you?” </p>
<p>“My sister gave me your card,” Nesta didn’t like this woman. She wracked her brain to think of how this person could help her, especially when she didn’t particularly want anyone’s help. </p>
<p>“And who, my dear,” Nesta could hear the snide smile in Amren’s voice, “is your sister?”</p>
<p>“Feyre,” Nesta huffed, “Feyre Archeron.” </p>
<p>“Oh, Feyre darling! Why didn’t you say so?” Amren warmed immediately. Well, at least to a level above stone cold. “Yes, Feyre told me about you.”</p>
<p>“You must have read—”</p>
<p>“I don't read the news, dear girl,” Amren said, flippant. “I have someone perfect for you. I will send him. Already have your address.” </p>
<p><em> God, </em> she really needed to have a conversation with Feyre about boundaries. <em> Who is she sending? </em></p>
<p>“Who are you sending?” Nesta had not been sober long enough for this. Her brain wasn’t firing quick enough to deal with whoever this person was sending to her apartment. </p>
<p>“His name is Cassian. He’ll be at your apartment in two hours.” </p>
<p>
  <em> Two hours?! </em>
</p>
<p>“I can’t have anyone in my apartment in two hours! What is this??” </p>
<p>“We call it therapy,” just like Feyre had, “you don’t need to do anything to prepare.” </p>
<p>“But I don’t even—” The line went dead. </p>
<p>Nesta stared at her phone. <em> How could I prepare if I don’t know what to prepare for? </em></p>
<p>↞↠</p>
<p>Two hours later, Nesta was pacing. Nervous. She was rarely nervous but she was also rarely unprepared. This felt like a bad omen, like suspense in a horror film. Like this Cassian might jump out of the shadows at any moment from some secret portal. </p>
<p>She had washed her hair but no makeup. She had put on leggings but no real pants. There were concessions she was willing to make and others she wasn’t. It didn’t matter that they were only concessions to her own pride. Feyre got one opportunity to meddle in Nesta’s life, one opportunity to try and control how she coped with losing everything. Nesta would endure it in her own home, in her bare feet, or she wouldn’t endure it at all. </p>
<p>An assertive knock at the door made her jump. </p>
<p>Her heart thundered. She hadn’t talked to a man in months, let alone been in a small space with one. Now there was one at her door. She padded across her expensive rug, smoothing her hair as she went. Her hand gripped the doorknob, giving herself a second to stop shaking. <em> Breathe in, breathe out </em>. She jerked the door open only to be left utterly speechless. </p>
<p>The most beautiful man she’d ever seen was leaning on the door frame, forearms crossed over his massive chest. </p>
<p>“Nesta?” one corner of his full mouth curved upward. He inclined his head behind her left shoulder after she nodded. “Gonna let me in?” </p>
<p>“Why should I?” She challenged, angling her chin up at him. </p>
<p>“Because,” his shoulder length black hair slid into his face as his towering frame looked down at her. He came closer and held her chin between his rough fingers, “you’re at least a little curious about what I’m doing here.” </p>
<p>Nesta ripped her face from his hands and took a step away from him. His hazel eyes stripped her bare. <em> How does he do that? </em> He appraised her frankly, taking in her sloppily thrown together appearance. The baby hairs that clung to the side of her face, unable to stay in her top knot. Her soft curves that the oversized t-shirt she wore only hinted at. All the way down to her toes, the cracked polish left over from her wedding manicure, just a couple of splotches of color left. </p>
<p>His gaze sent a warmth through her. She tried to will it away, send it back to the hell she belonged in. Shaking her head, she stuck him with a glare. </p>
<p>“Fine,” she stepped aside, “come in and tell me what you’re doing here so I can tell you to get out.” </p>
<p>He walked in smoothly, his gray slacks gripping his toned thighs with each stride. Too casual, Nesta thought, for a therapist, especially with his white shirt open at the collar and rolled to his elbows. Not that she actually believed whatever this was even approached therapy.</p>
<p>He stopped in the center of Nesta’s living room and turned, giving the place as detailed a once-over as he had given her. His eyes only paused briefly on the wedding dress still hanging in the corner, but he faced her again as if nothing were out of the ordinary. </p>
<p>“So,” he took up so much space as he spoke, too big, too much life for this apartment that had only contained her hollow soul for so long, “everyone up to this point has referred to this appointment as therapy, correct?” </p>
<p>“Yes,” Nesta replied, curt. “But you’re no therapist, are you, <em> Cassian </em>?”</p>
<p>He snorted, a challenge to her fire temper. She didn’t like to be mocked and somehow he knew that. “No, I’m no therapist.” </p>
<p>“I’m what is referred to in the circles you run in as an escort, a <em> friend </em>, of sorts.” He looked her dead in the eye. No shame, no fear. Just a professional. “We call it therapy, first and foremost for discretion, but also because I’m here to make you feel better. Feel alive again. In whatever form that might take.”</p>
<p>Nesta stiffened. Her mouth dropped open. <em> No </em> . “My sister sent me a hooker? You’re telling me that, my sister, the High Lady of the Night Court, sent me a <em> hooker?! </em>” </p>
<p>She could barely keep up with the 100 mile an hour thoughts racing through her head. It wasn’t long before the pacing started again. <em> Feyre said she uses the service sometimes...with Rhys?! </em> She maybe could have guessed that her sister and her ass of a husband were freaky but <em> prostitutes?! </em>Couldn’t they just ask someone? </p>
<p><em> Nesta, please do be discrete </em>, she’d said as she walked out the door. She guessed paying for silence was easier than risking a secret. Money is always the best form of currency. </p>
<p>
  <em> Well, I guess I fucking know why. And she set this up for me?! What in hell’s fire did she think she was doing? </em>
</p>
<p>Cassian just stood there while her brain worked, while it exploded with all of this new information. So still, a statue compared to her frantic pacing. <em> He must deal with this a lot. But wait, don’t people usually know what they’re asking for?!  </em></p>
<p>“You’ve never–“ she couldn’t finish the question out loud. Sharing was something foreign to Nesta even when she wasn’t talking about sexual partners. </p>
<p>“<em> No </em>,” he shook his head, “Amren wouldn’t have sent me here if I had. She just told me the context of the visit.”</p>
<p>“So, you’re here,” Nesta stopped in front of him, “to have sex with me?” The words came out a whisper. They sounded so foreign, so ridiculous. </p>
<p>“I’m here to help you.” He took a step toward her. The walls came down fast.</p>
<p>“And why do you think you can help me?” The words cut through the space like a knife. Accusatory, incredulous, they almost stung passing over her vocal cords. </p>
<p>“Because, dear Nesta,” he took another step toward her, and another, “I’m very good at helping people.” </p>
<p>The warmth in her blood returned and warred with the acid coursing through her veins, the hate. It came raging back from this morning, from the past months, from ten minutes ago when this cocky prick knocked on her door. He was staring again, close enough to have to look down at her, just an inch or two from touching. </p>
<p>“I don’t need help from a high-dollar <em> whore </em>,” she spat. The only sign that she’d hit her mark was a faint twitch in his eyebrow. </p>
<p>“I’ve been called worse, sweetheart,” he drawled. “But let’s get one thing straight. I think you need help more than you’d ever admit. I don’t think you’ve taken a breath since then. I read the papers. A beloved dead sister. Absent from the funerals. You blame yourself for not being there, for not dying with them. The guilt warms your bed at night while you lie awake, as much a part of you as the alcohol that twinges your breath. It’s become so familiar you don’t remember what it’s like without it. Who would Nesta Archeron be without that dark stain on her conscience following her like a storm cloud? Will all those liquor bottles I saw outside answer that question for you? Will that tattered wedding dress?”</p>
<p>“How <em> dare </em>–“ she felt the door press against her back, unconsciously moving with him while he lashed at her burning soul, fire for fire. </p>
<p>“Oh, I dare,” he continued, planting his hands on the door behind her, trapping her with his eyes. “Because take it from someone who knows, when you decide to wake up and live with what you have left instead of existing with everything you’ve lost, there may not be anything left to live with. And trust me, guilt makes a very lonely bedfellow.”</p>
<p>Nesta had barely blinked this whole time, refusing to let him have that victory. Even if everything he’d said had hit home. Even if everything he’d said had flayed her open and raked her insides across the coals. She still burned with that unyielding rage. </p>
<p>“Is that what you say to all the girls that pay for your time?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. She was close enough to smell him, the warm spice of clove and sandalwood with a distinctly male musk. It was intoxicating. It was infuriating. </p>
<p>“Some. Some of the men, too. I’m an equal opportunity tough lover.” </p>
<p>She swallowed hard. He was close enough that if she moved an inch his hair might brush her cheek. “Is that what this is? Tough love? For someone you just met?”</p>
<p>“It’s the truth,” his breath tickled her face, the tension crackling like static electricity around them, “isn’t it?”</p>
<p>He sounded tentative for the first time, like maybe he’d overstepped. <em> Is it really so obvious? </em></p>
<p>“Did Feyre pay you to say those things?” Or were they just written so plainly on her face?</p>
<p>“<em> Nooo </em>,” he said, lower than before, gentler, raising one of his hands like he might stroke her cheek. She cursed herself silently for hoping. He came closer then, his lips a hair’s breadth away from her ear, “Feyre paid me to fuck you senseless.” </p>
<p><em> Goddamn him. </em>Fire shot into her veins. Not the simmering fury of her anger but something deeper, hotter, pooling in her core. Her breath caught in a little gasp and he smiled. A wide, full grin with teeth that made him look more predator than man.</p>
<p>Her body was a traitor, but it made no difference. She was already burning in hell.</p>
<p>Cassian held still, letting her make the next move. Part of her wanted to make him stand there forever, punish him for what he said, what he knew about her, daring to say what no one else would with just one look. A different part of her wanted to rip him apart. </p>
<p>“Come on, Nesta,” a prince of cats toying with his prey, “show me that fi–“</p>
<p>Her lips crashed against his. <em> God </em>, he was big. She reached around him, fingers tensed to claw at his back, and savored the muscles and sinews that made up the terrain. He pressed her into the door. His hands cupped her face, so gentle for a kiss that was anything but. Flames licked her skin everywhere he touched, at every point their bodies connected through clothing.</p>
<p>He leaned and gripped and suddenly she was taller than him, her legs wrapped around his middle, his fingers pressed into the curve of her ass. She gripped the sides of his face and guided him to the side, forcing herself deeper, her tongue brazenly exploring his mouth. He even tasted wild, like fresh mint and adrenaline. Her heart beat in her ears, deafening over the silence of the apartment. He moaned, so deep it vibrated in her chest.</p>
<p>Nesta broke first, pupils blown and breath ragged.</p>
<p>“Finally shut you up?” she asked, sagging back against the door, her head falling against the wood with a low thud. </p>
<p>He….well, he <em> growled </em>. There was no other word for the sound that rippled through his whole body and found a home between her legs. Her toes curled and she thanked every god that he couldn’t see. </p>
<p>“Pretty little acid tongue,” he pushed them off the door and walked her toward the bed, almost tripping twice over the plush rug. Nesta didn’t notice. She was too busy tearing at the buttons down Cassian’s chest. Each one revealed inch after inch of smooth golden skin. Licks of black ink stretched from his shoulders, mostly hidden by more shirt. She huffed, trying to shove it off, but instead caught his nipple by accident with her nails. </p>
<p>His nostrils flared as he hissed and dropped her unceremoniously on the mattress. She bounced, breathless. Dangerously close to a giggle. <em> Traitor. </em> She schooled her features back to bored disdain. The only hint of lust was the glassy haze in her vision, honed in on Cassian’s bare chest. </p>
<p>He had removed his shirt while she had been distracted by her traitorous body, discarded it somewhere above her. The black inked lines Nesta had seen stretched around his shoulders and down his arms in dark whorls and spirals. The tattoo was almost feminine in its pure decoration, a stark contrast to his cut biceps. It was beautiful. </p>
<p><em> He </em>was beautiful. </p>
<p>“Careful, Nesta,” he chided, “someone might think you like what you see.” </p>
<p>She gave him a filthy gesture. A deep, rumbling laugh escaped him as he took a step closer, his fingers grazing the outer seams of her leggings. From her ankle to her knee, where he stopped to make circles. He curved around her knee and gripped her legs, tugging her to the edge of the bed. The palms of his hands burned her skin straight through her leggings. He hadn’t tried to remove her clothes. She couldn’t decide if it was a tease or an insult. Probably both. </p>
<p>“Are you just going to talk?” she cocked an eyebrow at him, “or are you going to do something productive with that mouth?” </p>
<p>His eyes narrowed, “are you sure that’s what you want?” </p>
<p>She wanted him. <em> Damn </em> her, she wanted him so bad she could barely stand to look at him. The guilt roiled in her stomach, that she should take pleasure while everyone she’d loved could no longer. He’d offered her help, but it would be her damnation. No, this was just a distraction. No amount of distraction could bring back Tomas, or her father, or Elain. </p>
<p>Light from the city outside shifted and spread into the corner drawing her eye. The dress. <em> Her wedding dress </em> . In the night shadows, the blunt burns looked like angry, gaping voids. They whispered to her as she stared. <em> Traitor, traitor, traitor </em>. </p>
<p><em> I’m here to help you </em>. His words were poison. Bred from a kind of hope only Feyre, with her perfect life, could ever have again after what they had lost. Her want for Cassian’s body burned her from the inside, stoked the fires of the self-inflicted hell she’d cast herself into. Nothing more than a catalyst. She could take his body and burn for doing so, but she would not accept his help. </p>
<p>“<em> Cassian </em>,” Nesta’s voice didn’t belong to her. She pulled her t-shirt up to just below her breasts, exposing her flat stomach and drawing his eyes to her waistband. “just do what you came to do.” </p>
<p>The air chilled as he stiffened. Her heart raced, waiting for him, fingers teasing her bare skin. He didn’t move. She lifted a bare foot and ran it along his pant leg, coaxing him to touch her. He nodded, as if making some decision Nesta wasn’t privy to. His face, lit so beautifully by the moonlight, hardened into a mask. A smooth, smiling mask. Prince of cats no more. </p>
<p>“Cassian?” </p>
<p>“Dear Nesta, I do believe our time is up,” he leaned down and reached over her, his chest just grazing her belly, the only skin to skin contact they’d had. She swore she felt him shudder, but it was over in an instant. He quickly retrieved his shirt from behind her and pulled it on. </p>
<p>She gaped at him, “what do you mean our time is up?” </p>
<p>“I mean,” his eyes shot right through her with cool confidence, “it’s getting late and I do need my beauty sleep. I must be going.” </p>
<p>“But–“ she didn’t understand. Isn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t this how he gets paid? How can he leave? </p>
<p>He buttoned up his shirt, swift and efficient. Little feeling or warmth. Nesta wasn’t sure what to do. Confusion quickly gave way to anger, boiling in her veins, flushing her skin.</p>
<p>“So, you’re not just a whore,” she hissed, “you’re a bastard whore that can’t even finish the job.” </p>
<p>“So lovely meeting you, dear Nesta,” he turned with a sweet smile and opened the door, sending any tension between them out into the hallway. He breezed through the door, clicking it shut behind him so gently he might have been a phantom. </p>
<p>Nesta slammed her head against the mattress and let out a frustrated scream so loud she had no doubt the bastard whore heard it. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Cassian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Cassian is benched</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warnings: little bit of language and extreme confusion....also Mor kitchen dancing in her underwear ::uwu::</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">His ringtone felt like repeated daggers stabbing his eardrums. He squinted his eyes open. It was bright outside, late morning, and he was hungover. His eyes snapped shut and he pawed at the nightstand to find his phone. </p>
<p class="p1">“Helloooo?” he was still slurring a little. </p>
<p class="p1">“CASSIAN,” <em>oh god</em>, “WHAT DID YOU DO TO THAT POOR GIRL?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Amren, it’s fine,” he pressed his thumb and index finger into his eye sockets to dull the light. “I have everything under control.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Control,” her voice had cooled, “I see.” He could practically hear her eyes narrowing through the phone. “Well your control caused Nesta Archeron to instruct me to tell you that if you ever darken her door again, she will put a knife in your heart.” </p>
<p class="p1">“You know I have my ways, Amren,” he huffed, rolling over to sit on the edge of the bed. “We’re just warming up to each other.” He dug his toes into the shaggy gray rug that ran beneath his bed. The texture grounded him, brought his focus back to his surroundings instead of swirling around in his stomach with the stale wine from last night. “She’ll call back.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t know, Cassian,” Amren sighed, like she had many, many times before. “I think you really did a number on her. She wasn’t ready. Why must you be this way? We’re supposed to be a <em>service organization</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You wouldn’t keep me on if you thought I rendered poor service, Amren.” He heard movement in the kitchen. Someone else must be scrounging for food. </p>
<p class="p1">“I know, I know,” Amren warmed, “you’re the only one I let loose without a tight leash. My favorite dog. Did you at least <em>try</em> to play nice?” </p>
<p class="p1">“Now, now, you know me better than that,” Cassian rolled his neck and let it pop a couple of times. He smirked, “I never play nice.” </p>
<p class="p1">A deep sigh, loud enough to make the receiver crackle. </p>
<p class="p1">“She’ll call back, Amren,” he finally stood up. “I know it.” </p>
<p class="p1">“Well, good. Because you don’t get another assignment until she does.” </p>
<p class="p1">“AMREN, I–“ The line went dead. </p>
<p class="p1">Cassian pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it. <em>Damn you, Nesta Archeron</em>. He tossed his phone onto his blood red, rumpled sheets and padded out to the kitchen. The midday sun floated into the townhouse through a bay window facing the street. Stainless steel glimmered in the light and reflected onto Morrigan wielding a very large frying pan and a carton of badly damaged eggs.</p>
<p class="p1">Her golden blonde hair was tied up on top of her head, loose tendrils floating around her temples, waving in an invisible breeze with the soft movement of her hips. Her ass was out, dancing around the stove in nothing but a Rolling Stones t-shirt and a pair of hot pink cheekies. She was always dancing, even when she was cooking. Especially when she was cooking badly. Cassian could see the brownish bits of crust floating around in what looked to be an attempt at scrambled eggs. </p>
<p class="p1">“Mor!” She jumped, taking out an earbud. He opened the massive two door fridge and grabbed a second dozen of eggs, “let me….fix this.” </p>
<p class="p1">“Cassian, you don’t have to do that! Look! I’m doing fine! Eggs!” she said, just as a black curl of smoke rose from the rapidly deteriorating situation on the stove. </p>
<p class="p1">“Yeahhhh,” he said, gently setting her pan in the sink and hip checking her toward the island, “let the master work.” He started cracking eggs and whisking while a second frying pan heated up. </p>
<p class="p1">“Where’s Az?” Cassian asked. </p>
<p class="p1">“Azriel is...indisposed,” Mor snorted, <em>so ladylike</em>, “I heard him puking his guts up a couple hours ago.” She grimaced, laying out several slices of bacon on a baking sheet. <em>At least she can’t burn it</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">Cassian had returned early to the apartment last night in a foul mood after his run-in with Nesta. Mor and Az knew he had an appointment, knew that sometimes his appointments didn’t go the way he wanted, and instead of facing a moody, broody Cassian for the next several days, they immediately whisked him off to Rita’s for drinking and dancing to blow off steam. A lot of drinking. Cassian hadn’t been that smashed in months. Hadn’t seen Azriel that smashed possibly ever. Mor was her usual self, drinking them both under the table, flirting with every woman who walked by with a decent set of tits. </p>
<p class="p1">“Where is your,” his mouth turned up at the corner, “<em>friend</em> from last night?” Crickets.</p>
<p class="p1">“OW!” Cassian halted mid-stir and turned around, rubbing the back of his head. A wooden spoon clattered to the floor. “What was that for?”</p>
<p class="p1">“For being a general, all-around asshole, that’s what!” Mor shoved him aside and put the bacon in the oven. She set the oven timer, even though Cassian didn’t need it, and hopped up on the island, wincing at the cold marble colliding with the bare skin of her thighs. “She left this morning, very early.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Did you….have fun?” </p>
<p class="p1">She raised her trusty wooden spoon above her head like she might throw it again. Cassian ducked and darted to the side, taking his perfect scramble off the burner with him. </p>
<p class="p1">“<em>Ugh,</em> how do you <em>do that?!</em>” she rolled her eyes at his fluffy yellow pillows of eggy goodness and huffed, “I did have fun. Thank God you bastards were passed out drunk though, she was loud.”</p>
<p class="p1">It was his turn to roll his eyes, just like Mor to disguise a brag inside an inconvenience. </p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, well. You’re <em>very</em> talented.” He sniggered, walking over to the island to unload breakfast onto a platter. Just within range of Mor’s spoon. </p>
<p class="p1"><em>Whack!</em> Right in the bicep.</p>
<p class="p1">“Mor, what the fuck?!” </p>
<p class="p1">“Well, Cassian, if you’ll stop being a fucking dick then maybe I won’t have to use this anymore.” She slid off the counter and tucked her spoon into the waistband of her panties, patting it like a good dog. </p>
<p class="p1">“Can you both <em>please</em> shut up?” Azriel came padding into the kitchen with only a pair of low-slung sweatpants on. “My head is splitting.” </p>
<p class="p1">“You’re in luck, Az! We have breakfast!” Cassian presented his egg platter, now topped with slices of avocado and sprinkled with salsa. “Mor, get the bacon before you burn that too.” </p>
<p class="p1">All three of them sat around the breakfast table eating breakfast for lunch. Mor with her feet up and a piece of bacon hanging out of her mouth, Cassian with his mountain of eggs, and Azriel nursing his third glass of water with a side of ibuprofen. </p>
<p class="p1">“Anybody working tonight?” Cassian asked through a mouthful of bacon.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, Amren has me scheduled double today up near Thread and Jewels,” Mor said, checking the time on her phone, “I should start getting ready in a couple hours.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Az?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Something later tonight up at the Hewn,” Cassian shivered. Azriel was always up at that damn club. He had a special way with the shadowy places of the world, the finest and most unsuspecting switch Cassian had ever known. Everyone in Velaris knew Hewn City the dance club, but only the especially depraved knew Hewn City the sex club. Almost all of Azriel’s clients requested him there. Amren kept a waiting list. </p>
<p class="p1">“What about you?” Az asked, “need an off night after whatever the fuck happened to you?” </p>
<p class="p1">“Honestly, I’d love to have appointments lined up for the rest of the week but Amren is fucking benching me.” Cassian stabbed some more eggs and shoved them into his mouth. </p>
<p class="p1">“What?! Benching you??” Mor was stunned. As far as they knew, none of them had ever been benched. They were always working and happy to be doing so. Bringing pleasure to people who otherwise couldn’t find it, well it gave them all a sense of purpose. More than they’d ever felt in childhood. </p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah,” his fork clattered against his plate, “I don’t know, I might have fucked up. I did something...I mean it’s nothing that I haven’t done before but this client is...high profile.” He dropped his chin and scrubbed at the back of his neck. </p>
<p class="p1">“So, you’re not allowed to take anyone else?” Mor raised an eyebrow. </p>
<p class="p1">“Not until the client calls back and requests another appointment.” </p>
<p class="p1">“Do you think they will?” Azriel wasn’t worried, just curious. </p>
<p class="p1">“I,” he hated admitting it, “I’m not sure.” </p>
<p class="p1">A low whistle sounded from Mor. “Sex therapist Cassian finally  went too far...never thought I’d see the day.” She drained her coffee mug and belched. </p>
<p class="p1">“Such a fucking lady,” Cassian drawled. He rubbed his eyes, the hangover fog finally leaving him with the consequences of his actions. “I don’t know, I still think I did the right thing. I’ve never been the ‘fuck ‘em I’m getting paid anyway’ guy. That’s why Amren sends me on the difficult jobs.” </p>
<p class="p1">“We know, Cass,” Mor patted his knee. “Look at it this way, you get to sleep! Brush up on those classic novels you love! Swim some laps!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Really, Mor? Laps?” Az shook his head, chuckling. </p>
<p class="p1">“I’m <em>trying</em> to be supportive,” she said through her teeth.</p>
<p class="p1">Cassian let out a choked snort that had them all bursting out laughing. Once the stitches settled and Azriel was holding his pounding head, wiping the tears leaking from his hazel eyes, they all got up from the table and scattered. Mor fought with Azriel over the dishes and Cassian retreated to the comfort of his stupidly obnoxious bedroom.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Boudoir</em> was the better word for it. Minimal, but dark, heavy fabrics and rugs. Reds and grays and a bulky, inky black comforter draped over a massive four poster bed. There was one window, but it was often covered completely by opaque curtains—a side effect of working nights. He walked over and slid those curtains back, letting the natural light spill into the room, before falling face down onto his bed. A heavy sigh turned into a frustrated grunt as he turned over onto his back.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Nesta fucking Archeron</em>. </p>
<p class="p1">He prided himself on being prepared for every appointment. It was part of what Amren loved about his style. Sometimes it required research if the person was of a high enough profile. Nesta’s family was about as high profile as it got in Velaris, so he had read all the articles. Months ago, the news had been everywhere, but he rarely paid attention to current events. Typical clickbait tragedy. Plane crash. No survivors. Family left behind. Except this family was Night Court royalty. Nesta’s story got lost after the liquor bottle incident, so when he knocked on her door that night, he had prepared for a little lingering trauma. Maybe someone hoping to move on. Amren wouldn’t have assigned him if she thought he couldn’t help her the way he helped so many others. </p>
<p class="p1">Whatever he thought he’d find was definitely not what opened that door. </p>
<p class="p1">At first he’d been knocked on his ass. Metaphorically. She was beautiful, even with all that raw pain and hate in her eyes. The not quite red but not quite blonde shade of her hair, the sharp angles of her face, those wild, piercing blue-gray eyes. If looks could kill she would have eviscerated him with that look when she opened the door. But he could see the pain beneath the unwavering disdain, the weight that she bore despite her rigid posture. She seemed to only exist to spite whatever twist of fate had let her live while everyone around her had died. Everyone except the sister she held in open contempt. </p>
<p class="p1"><em>Feyre paid me to fuck you senseless</em>. </p>
<p class="p1">He thought he knew what he was doing when he whispered it in her ear. Thought it might appeal to her rage instead of knocking at the impenetrable adamant wall surrounding her. She’d been snide at his attempts at truth, at seeing her for what she was—just a pretty wounded bird, lashing out at everything that sought to bring her comfort. So he went low. She had been right, he wasn’t a therapist. He wasn’t going to play like one. </p>
<p class="p1">But then she kissed him. Hot and bruising and full of lust and hate and passion, tasting of stale weed and that morning’s breakfast cocktail. But he didn’t care. It was the first time she had loosened her grip on that aura of cool rage. He fell into it. His fingers pressed into the soft curve of her ass. His teeth nipped at her lower lip. Yes, she teased him, tried to mask her desire in words laced with poison, but he didn’t buy it. She wanted him. And <em>goddamn</em> if he hadn’t wanted her too. </p>
<p class="p1">Cassian couldn’t remember the last time he had been that lost in an appointment. There was something about Nesta. Something about her wild rage and crippling guilt that challenged him. The tension between them had crackled to life as soon as she had opened her door and it built to a peak when he stood there in front of her, shirtless and hard, waiting for her to let him in. </p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Just do what you came to do.</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">He let out another frustrated grunt. </p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>...you’re a bastard whore that can’t even finish the job. </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">She thought she was hurting him, or at least insulting him enough to never come back. But the sex was only a tool, not the job. He wasn’t fucking with her when he said he wanted to help her, to make her feel good. Any orgasm he would have left her with last night would have destroyed her. He’d seen it before, when he was young and charming and arrogant and stupid. Wouldn’t be the cause of it again. </p>
<p class="p1">So he would wait. </p>
<p class="p1">And wait. </p>
<p class="p3">↞↠</p>
<p class="p1">He started <em>War and Peace </em>for the fifth time, determined to finish it this time. Got up and made his bed everyday. Sat with Mor while she online shopped. Got his ass beat challenging Az to video games. He convinced them both to go on runs with him, Az in the morning and Mor in the afternoon. He hadn’t had this much time to himself in years.</p>
<p class="p1">Amren had stopped answering his calls after some embarrassing groveling a couple days after his punishment began. He had begged for an assignment. Nothing special, but <em>anything</em> to take his mind off replaying the other night. </p>
<p class="p1">“This is beneath you, Cassian,” she had said. She was right, but he was just so goddamn bored. He had always found purpose in his work, didn’t see it as something to be ashamed of or to shy from. He lost himself in it. Without clients, he felt unmoored. </p>
<p class="p1">Which was why, after <em>nine days</em>, he practically collapsed when he saw Amren calling. </p>
<p class="p1">“What’s up, boss?” trying to play it cool. </p>
<p class="p1">“Cassian, stop acting like you can fool me,” he almost wept at the sound of her chill voice, “I know you’ve been waiting for my call since I put you in timeout.” He could hear her sucking on her teeth, dragging this out, “I’ve decided you’re the luckiest bastard I’ve ever met.” </p>
<p class="p1">“<em>Oh?</em>” He held his breath, too anxious to hope. </p>
<p class="p1">“I got an interesting phone call from one Nesta Archeron this morning.” </p>
<p class="p1">He sat straighter.</p>
<p class="p1">“She seems to have rethought stabbing you in the heart. I made her promise me she wouldn’t after she requested your presence.” </p>
<p class="p1">“<em>She did?</em>” He fucking knew it. </p>
<p class="p1">“Apparently, you made a lingering impression,” her tone was getting sweeter by the second, which only made something in his stomach go sour.</p>
<p class="p1">“Did I?” <em>Can’t you just be thankful, dumbass?</em></p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, so much so that she’s requested a little field trip.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Field trip?” He was flummoxed, positive Nesta hadn’t left her apartment in months except to make pilgrimages to the corner liquor store. </p>
<p class="p1">“She wants you to meet her tomorrow night,” she paused, building suspense. Amren was a fucking drama queen of a madam. “Tomorrow night up at the Hewn.” </p>
<p class="p1">“The Hewn?!” </p>
<p class="p1">“I know right? I didn’t expect it either.” Amren sounded impressed. It made Cassian nervous. </p>
<p class="p1">“Are you sure Az isn’t the right person for this job?” he asked, exasperated already at where this was all going. </p>
<p class="p1">“I am very sure that I am the one who doles out assignments and won’t be taking criticism or second guesses <em>ever</em>,” her voice was acid over the phone. Cassian was sure that if he’d been sitting in front of her, he might have lost something valuable. Something essential to his job function. </p>
<p class="p1">“Okay, <em>okay</em>,” he lifted a hand to the empty room in surrender, “tomorrow night up at the Hewn. I’ll be there.” </p>
<p class="p1">“Good, good, I’ll let her know.” Amren sounded pleased. “And Cassian?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, Amren?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t disappoint me.” The line went dead. </p>
<p class="p3">↞↠</p>
<p class="p1">“Stop fidgeting,” a slap stung Cassian’s bicep, “you’re such an embarrassment.”</p>
<p class="p1">Azriel was leaning casually against the wall of the club, like he belonged here. Cassian, on the other hand, was pacing. He could barely hear his own footfalls on the old, industrial stone floors over the din of the music upstairs. The driving, electronic beat made the very foundation of this place shake. It was the perfect cover for the red padded walls the level below the dance floor. </p>
<p class="p1">“I haven’t been here in months,” Cassian hissed, “you know this isn’t my style.” </p>
<p class="p1">“I know, I know,” Az gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “but it’s what the client wanted.” </p>
<p class="p1">Cassian hadn’t wanted to come up here alone. Az had an appointment half an hour later than the time he was supposed to meet Nesta. They had left a full hour early, Cassian’s stomach doing free falls while he looked at himself in the living room mirror. He had dressed casually, a pair of well-cut jeans and a black t-shirt that hugged his biceps. No one meeting in this place kept their clothes on for very long. At least, when they met here on time. Nesta was fifteen minutes late. </p>
<p class="p1">Heel clicks sounded around the corner and Cassian stopped dead in his tracks, swiveling his head around. Azriel was already gone, swift and silent as a shadow. <em>How does he do that?</em> He shook his head, focusing on the echoing shadow approaching. A lithe shadow with swaying hips that then dipped into the light in front of him. </p>
<p class="p1">It took everything he had to still his features and keep them from reacting. </p>
<p class="p1">She was wearing a dress. It was deep blue, sleeveless, but with a high neck. It brushed the ground every time she took a step but the high slit on the right side gave him a show of long, toned legs that ended in delicate heeled sandals. Half of her hair was pulled up into a bun, putting her face on beautiful display. Her eyes were simple, just the barest definition to bring out the gray, but her lips. <em>God, her lips</em>. They were painted in dark burgundy, dark and sultry. He shook his head again to get the thought of where those lips might touch him out. </p>
<p class="p1">“Better watch out, Cassian,” the first words she spoke dripped with venom and his cock twitched in his pants, <em>depraved traitor</em>, “you’re gonna catch flies with that open trap.” Her finger brushed up under his chin and he snapped his jaw shut, the sound of his teeth slamming together loud enough to echo in the empty hallway. </p>
<p class="p1">“Well, well, Nesta,” he regained composure instantaneously. She caught him off guard with the dress and the makeup and the legs but he’d already met her lethal mouth. “Glad to see you own clothes without burns and stains.” His mouth turned up at the corners into a vicious smile. </p>
<p class="p1">Her nostrils flared.</p>
<p class="p1">“Though I am disappointed to be so underdressed, I’m not sure how long you’ll need all that once we walk through those doors.” He winked suggestively, nodding at the red door behind them. Even though his words were anything but a suggestion. They were kindling for the fire that lit between them. All he had to do was hold them close to the flames that burned within her. </p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” she patted his chest, condescension dripping from her mouth, “I know the game now, remember?”</p>
<p class="p1">The implication sent a shiver through him. <em>What had happened in nine days?</em></p>
<p class="p1">“Do you now?” he quirked an eyebrow at her. Usually he could see through false confidence and bravado. It reeked of the bitter taste of desperation. But Nesta was an enigma. All he sensed was cold, hard stone beneath her words. She started down the hall past him, dragging her fingertips across his chest and over his shoulder, a silent request—an order—to follow.</p>
<p class="p1"> It was a cat and mouse game between them, but he wasn’t sure who was the cat and who was the mouse.</p>
<p class="p1">Cassian had no idea where this night was going to take them, but she was in control now. His nerves had calmed since she had turned that corner with her hips swaying. Maybe this would be easy. Maybe he was a fool for even thinking anything involving Nesta Archeron would be easy. She turned her head to make sure he was close behind, smirking when she caught his eye. His cock twitched again. <em>Goddammit</em>. </p>
<p class="p1">She raised a fist to knock on the door, a rough lover’s touch against the wood. Several locks flipped and it creaked open, revealing a very large, very tattooed guard. </p>
<p class="p1">“Name?” he grunted, glaring at Cassian, sizing him up. </p>
<p class="p1">“Nesta Archeron.” She drew his attention and recognition flickered in his eyes. “I have a reservation.” He checked a clipboard. </p>
<p class="p1">“Ah, yes, Ms. Archeron,” his tone had suddenly become formal. Cassian caught Nesta’s eyes roll. The bouncer ruffled through a cabinet and produced a key. </p>
<p class="p1">“Room 3B. My name is Devlon. Let me know if he gives you any trouble.” He let them pass, knocking Cassian on the shoulder as he walked through the door. </p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, thank you, Devlon. But I don’t think I’m the one who needs to worry about trouble tonight.” Her smirk was feline, all fire and smoke, as she grabbed Cassian’s hand and led him down the hallway. </p>
<p class="p1">But those gray eyes remained stone cold.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>back to Nesta!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Nesta</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Nesta beguiles.</p>
<p>all warnings apply. especially the language and sex ones lmao. Nesta is a whole storm of complex emotions. enjoy!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nesta wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing.</p>
<p>It had seemed like a good idea. Everyone in certain social circles knew the truth about Hewn City. Knew the dance club for the front it was for the shadowy bowels beneath. Here, she had thought yesterday morning, here she could be on even ground with him. </p>
<p>
  <em> Him. </em>
</p>
<p>Cassian's hand was still in hers as she led them both down the long hallway toward room 3B. His words before hadn’t completely hidden his reactions to her clothes, her face, her body. She smiled to herself remembering the slight widening of his eyes. He probably thought he hadn’t reacted, but she knew. <em> All men are weak </em>. Just put on a dress and show some thigh and she knew she’d get his attention. Even if it was probably all for show. Cassian was a fine actor.</p>
<p>She thought back to four days ago. <em> Or was it five, </em>she thought. They had started to bleed together after the bender she’d gone on after wishing Cassian death on the phone with Amren.</p>
<p>
  <em> Feyre was in her apartment for the second time in a week. An unprecedented occurrence. If the judgment in her eyes was any indication, she had come to check on things. Baby sister coming to her rescue. How rich. She stood on the carpet again, with her perfect heeled sandals and her tidy camel trench coat. Thankfully, she’d left the hat at home this time. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest as she surveyed the room. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I see you’ve already made yourself at home again,” she observed, picking up a half-empty bottle of gin, “I’ll send Alis this afternoon.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I don’t want anyone else in my fucking apartment, Feyre,” Nesta cringed at the lingering slur in her voice.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “So you can drown yourself in this shit alone?” She held up an empty bottle of vodka in her other hand. “Nesta, it’s only been a few days since I was here the last time. Can you even stand right now?” </em>
</p>
<p><em> “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Nesta sneered, settling back into the couch cushions. She couldn’t, but Feyre was a bitch for even asking, so she spat back, “At least I cope with my problems legally, </em> High Lady. <em> ” In a fantasy world, smoke would have curled from her lips when she exhaled those last words.  </em></p>
<p>
  <em> Feyre stilled, breathing evenly. Nesta wasn’t sure if she was containing her rage or accepting the shame she had to be feeling.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I see you gave Amren a call.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “She didn’t tell you?” Nesta was surprised. Amren had seemed like one of Feyre’s inner circle, no matter how much money the High Lord and Lady may have given her.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “No, I told Amren that what you did with her number was your business,” she wrung her hands. She was….nervous. How odd. Feyre Archeron was a lot of things, but nervous was rarely one of them.  </em>
</p>
<p><em> “Well,” Nesta exhaled, the anger fleeting like wind taken out of her sails, “yes, I called. Everything was very cryptic until someone showed up here who was </em> not <em> a therapist and started taking his clothes off. Honestly, what were you thinking, Feyre?!”  </em></p>
<p><em> “I…” she hesitated, sinking down on the other end of the couch with Nesta, bracing her elbows on her knees, “I don’t know. I was desperate. I just want you to feel something again, Nes.” She hadn’t called her that since they were children. Nesta felt a little pang in her chest. </em> I need another drink. <em> “I know it’s...unconventional, but it really does help. Rhys and I...well, you know there’s a lot of stress involved in our lives.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em> “So you fuck it out with strangers that you pay to keep silent??” Nesta asked incredulously.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “When you put it like that it sounds a lot seedier than it actually is, but,” she huffed, swallowing back some kind of emotion, “yes. There’s a lot of….relief, if you just give into it. Amren knows what she’s doing.”  </em>
</p>
<p><em> “Are you and Rhys having problems?” It was the only explanation Nesta could understand for this. I mean it was one thing to hire a hooker if you weren’t getting any, but from the forced lunches and “sister dates” that Elain made the three of them go on, Feyre had always seemed to have a very </em> active <em> sex life.  </em></p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, God, no,” Feyre visibly relaxed, caught off guard by even the implication. That made Nesta’s stomach relax. She hadn’t even realized she cared. “Rhys and I are fine, stronger even. There is power in giving up power, especially when you grapple with it on a daily basis. But this isn’t about me or Rhys.” Feyre leaned over and reached out to take Nesta’s hands, but stopped when Nesta visibly tensed at the mere idea of contact. “I’m really not lying when I say I think a little relief would help you.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Why do you insist I need help?” Nesta ground out through her teeth.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Feyre sighed and stood. There was something settling over her face, deep in her eyes. Sadness. “Suit yourself, sister.” She stood and, to Nesta’s surprise, took a swig from the half-empty gin bottle she’d pushed in Nesta’s face earlier. Her face screwed up in a grimace, “Jesus, how do you drink that shit?” </em>
</p>
<p><em> “I don’t even taste it anymore.” Nesta looked off, toward the window. Toward the empty corner where the wedding dress had hung for months. She’d taken it down that night after </em> he <em> had left.  </em></p>
<p>
  <em> That bone-deep sadness returned to Feyre’s eyes, “Alis will be here this afternoon.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She left without another word.  </em>
</p>
<p>Nesta sighed, catching Cassian’s attention, but she said nothing. She kept a steady flow of booze in her veins after Feyre left for three more days, sometimes just laying in bed for hours while the world spun. She saw Tomas, saw Elain, but most often she saw hazel eyes and bold, dark lines inked across a broad, tanned chest. Those were the torturous hours, when the desire would rise in her, when she would <em> feel something </em> just like Feyre said. Even if it made her soul burn. He was haunting her. He’d left her alone, angry and wet, for what? Because she refused to accept his “help”? Wasn’t this all just fucking anyway? What difference did it make how she responded? </p>
<p>The frustration had overwhelmed her until she finally realized that it didn’t matter how much she drank, he wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t chase him into a whiskey-soaked oblivion like she could the memories of her fiancé and her sister. He was real. He was still breathing. He was making her life a living hell. </p>
<p>He was going to pay for it. </p>
<p>So, she’d called Amren back. Had made him meet her <em> here </em> of all places. Had put on a dress and a pair of heels and more makeup than she’d been planning to wear at her own wedding. A costume. A mask. If he was going to “help” her, at least it wouldn’t seem like her that he was helping. She’d fuck him out of her life on her terms. Just once wouldn’t damn her to hell, right?</p>
<p>Nesta had never been to Hewn City before. Clubbing had never been her style. She was more of a library, bookworm kind of girl. But now that she was here, she kind of liked the secrecy of it all, the <em> discretion </em> everyone had whispered about. It made her feel like a character in one of her books, a different kind of escape than booze offered, with the rouge-tinted lights and shadowy, padded hallways. She could be anyone here. She would be anyone here. Anyone but herself. </p>
<p>“I think this is it,” Cassian’s deep rumble sounded behind her. They stopped in front of a painted black door, the marker flickering “3B” in the light of the candle sconce behind them. Nesta fit the key into the lock and turned it. </p>
<p>The room was cooler than the hall, but she wasn’t sure the temperature was what made her break out in gooseflesh. There was a massive four-poster bed in the center of the room covered in black satin sheets drawn back against a deep crimson comforter. Only a handful of hanging exposed bulbs lit the space, giving the boudoir decoration some industrial finishes. It was like a scene out of some vampire film noir. The light reflecting off heavy restraint cuffs at each corner of the bed only heightened the effect. A dark armoire loomed in the corner. Nesta was sure that if she opened it, she would find any number of instruments with which to tease and taunt Cassian with. This place was a sex dungeon and she had paid to be a mistress tonight. </p>
<p><em> Cassian’s </em> mistress. </p>
<p>Nesta took a deep breath and settled into this new character, some confident woman who knew exactly what she wanted and knew exactly how to take it from a willing participant. She sauntered over to the foot of the bed and leaned back against it to look at him. He was so quiet tonight, looking around the room like she had, taking it all in. </p>
<p>“Cat got your tongue?” Nesta proded. </p>
<p>“No,” he hesitated, stuffing his hands into his front pockets like an embarrassed school boy rocking forward on his toes. It only lasted for a second before he hid it behind a smirk, “no, just a little….confused?”</p>
<p>“About what?” She crossed her feet at the ankle and let the deep slit on her dress fall open, revealing almost every inch of her long legs. His eyes widened momentarily before he cleared his throat. <em> Was he….nervous? </em></p>
<p>“Well, uhh,” he was <em> stammering </em> now, the false bravado unable to keep up with the situation unfolding in front of him, “if I’m being honest, I’m not sure what to do.” </p>
<p>“You mean, Cassian, self-proclaimed sex therapist, doesn’t know what to do?” The teasing in her voice blushed his cheeks pink, “well, color me surprised. I thought it would have been clear by now.” </p>
<p>“It’s not that it’s...you’re…” he cocked his head, “different.” His eyes followed every inch of bare skin from her painted toe to the top of the slit an inch below her hip. “Something changed.” </p>
<p>
  <em> Why does he make this so damn difficult? </em>
</p>
<p>“Yes, well,” she replied, biting her bottom lip for effect, “I decided that I want you to help me.” His head straightened.</p>
<p>“Do you?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, emphasizing the size of his biceps. His nervous energy cooled in seconds, giving way to something else, something that had been simmering beneath the ice. </p>
<p>“I do,” she slipped back a little farther onto her palms, tilting her head back. She was a predator, setting a pretty, needy trap for him. If he got off on a savior complex, she’d play the part until she got what she wanted. “I just want to feel normal again.” She smiled internally as she watched her words wash over him. Watched him take a few deep breaths, watched him move for the first time since they walked in the room.</p>
<p>He kept his body closed, his arms a barrier between the two of them, as he stalked forward. Nesta stopped breathing, feeling his gaze shift from confusion and questions to calculated assessment. He paused in front of her and bent down, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of her slim waist. The space between them was thinner than the air atop the mountains in Illyria. </p>
<p>“I think…” he looked her in the eye, no blinking, no touching, just a wisp of mint from his mouth, “that’s a load of bullshit.” </p>
<p>A rush of fury, so white hot it blinded her, licked down her arm. She raised her open hand and ripped it through the air. </p>
<p>Only to be caught in an iron grip. </p>
<p>“Ah, ah, dear Nesta,” his lips curled up on one side, “I like a little pain with my pleasure, but not without my consent.” </p>
<p>All she could do was stare him down as she huffed, imagining the breath leaving her nostrils in puffs of hot smoke. A caged dragon in pretty clothes begging to get out. But hell would freeze over before she moved first. She could feel the tension between them, feel the electricity pulsing through him where his fist gripped her wrist. Maybe it was her pheromone-laced delusion but she thought he might want this as much as she did. He wanted her challenge, her adamant wall. He wanted to break her, remake her. Little did he know that you can’t break what’s already broken. </p>
<p>
  <em> Just a character, just a role to play... </em>
</p>
<p>“Oh, come on, Cassian,” she tried to free her hand but he remained hard as stone around her wrist. He hadn’t pinned her legs though. She slid one bare leg up the inside seam of his jeans. The muscles flexed and contracted underneath the well-fit fabric, higher and higher, until she reached the apex. He hissed. A feline smile spread across her face when she felt it, felt <em> him </em> , hard and begging for her. “I think you want this a little more than you’re willing to admit, more than you’re <em> allowed </em> to admit.” </p>
<p>His nostrils flared, barely imperceptible, but even the smallest changes in him drew her notice. <em> Why? </em> It was a question she didn’t want to even ask herself, but it kept coming, night and day. <em> Why </em> did this night feel like the edge of a dangerous cliff? <em> Why </em> did his agreement to come tonight feel like more than just a business arrangement? <em> Why </em>did the tension between them feel like her only anchor to this life? She pressed harder into him, needing to move, to get this over with, to fuck him right out of her head.</p>
<p>“Nesta.” His voice brought her back from those questions that haunted her like the inked lines hidden underneath his t-shirt. So close now, so close to her fingers, her mouth. She looked up at him, aware of her knee still cradled between his legs. </p>
<p>“Cassian.” Her voice practically sang. The song of his own personal siren.  </p>
<p>He was so still. If he hadn’t said her name she wouldn’t have been sure he was even breathing. He placed his hand between his groin and her knee and stepped backward. His pupils were wide, endless pools, black as tar and eating at the hazel surrounding them. He was drunk on the lust, drowning in it just like she was. </p>
<p>“Take off that dress before I rip it off.” </p>
<p>A bone-deep shiver ran from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes at the command, reaching back up to settle between her thighs. She flushed from the heat of his gaze on her skin as she stood, reaching behind her neck to loose the three pearl buttons between her pride and her desire. <em> Fuck it. </em> The dress pooled at her feet. </p>
<p>The corner of her lip tugged upward when she heard his breath catch. She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. Lingerie had felt like too much and her regular cotton cheekies would have been too conspicuous beneath her close-fitting dress, so nothing had been the only choice. The right choice if Cassian’s jeans had anything to say about it, clearly growing tighter by the second. </p>
<p>Nesta backed herself onto the bed again, digging in with her heels to push herself toward the headboard as gracefully as she could while burning alive. And she was burning under his gaze. Every flick of his dilated pupils, from her bare legs, to her full breasts, to her smooth stomach, to her glistening cunt, she burned. When her head thudded against the carved cherry wood headboard, his eyes finally met hers. A low growl sounded in the back of his throat.</p>
<p>“See something you want, Cassian?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone innocent, indifferent. </p>
<p>“Depends, Nes.” She ignored the heat that pooled at the nickname, especially when he said, “what are you offering?”</p>
<p>She bit her lip at his words. And spread her knees open for him. <em> Now, come and take it. </em></p>
<p>He went wholly still as pink creeped into his tan cheeks. He was fucking <em> blushing </em>at her cunt on display for him. A filthy thought entered her head and before she could shut it down, she reached between her legs and traced a finger over her slit. The low lights flickered in the reflection off the wetness laced there before her finger disappeared….</p>
<p>Right between Nesta’s wine-colored lips. </p>
<p>His eyes tracked that finger in and out of her mouth as she sucked and swirled her tongue around it, moaning at the taste of her arousal, the eroticism of the gesture. She released her finger with a pop and smiled wickedly at him. </p>
<p>“Want to taste?” </p>
<p>Cassian moved swift as a thunderclap, as if her words were paddles jumpstarting his heart into quick, heavy beats. He pulled off his shirt. Those thick, black lines of ink that haunted her dreams were on full display, curling around his biceps and across his broad shoulders. She wanted to trace them with her tongue, taste the salt on his skin. He didn’t bother with some cliché striptease. His fingers fumbled with his belt, fumbled with the top button and zipper of those tight jeans. He tripped out of them, splaying his hands across the rumpled comforter as he kicked his pants somewhere across the room, losing his shoes and socks at some point between. </p>
<p>She would have smirked at the clumsiness, questioned his self-proclaimed prowess as a sex therapist, if her throat hadn’t gone completely dry at the size of him. Even through his underwear there was no mistaking it—massive, just like every inch of the rest of his body. Of course, he had a cock to match. </p>
<p>He grinned, following her eyes, guessing her train of thought. The bed dipped as he crawled toward her, full prince of cats on display again. A man who knew what people saw when they looked at him and enjoyed that power, that raw sexual energy dripping from his every pore. With that glint in his eye, she was happy to play along—for now. </p>
<p>Every thread in the expensive duvet cover beneath her set a thousand sparks rocketing across her skin. His movements were measured, purposefully kept from touching her skin. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off of him with every inch forward, every inch toward where she wanted him. All of him. His fingers, his mouth, his cock. Nesta started to fidget with anticipation, ready for him to spread her open and take, take, <em> take </em>, but she wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t reach or claw or whimper, no matter how much she wanted to. </p>
<p>Feyre might be paying, but she would own him before the end. Even if she had to sacrifice her soul to do it. </p>
<p>When his mouth finally made contact with her skin, a whisper of a kiss along the inside of her thigh, it was a struggle not to moan. Loud. She was strung tighter than a bowstring and he knew. Her traitor body was going to beg for him with or without words, so she opened her mouth instead. </p>
<p>“Gonna fuck me senseless, Cassian?” </p>
<p>His head jerked up from between her thighs, that feline smile turning her molten. “You know, Nesta. I think I’ll shut you up instead.” </p>
<p>Someone as big as he was shouldn’t have been able to move that fast. Shouldn’t have been able to cover her entire body with his and claim her mouth between one second and the next. His hands curled behind her neck to pull her firmly to him and devoured her. Their tongues clashed, dancing together, as she moaned into his mouth. Whether it was surprise or pleasure or both that pulled it from her, she wasn’t sure. The mint and adrenaline still laced his tongue, this time with a natural smokiness that she hadn’t noticed before. He licked at her, sucked at her lower lip. She nipped at him, teeth as much a weapon as her words, her hands. She dragged her nails down his naked back and drew a hiss from him, maybe some blood too if the tang of iron was any indication. </p>
<p>It only spurred him. </p>
<p>“You know these lips taste better when they’re not liquor-stained,” he panted. He studied her face, she knew it must be flushed from his kiss, and slowly ground his hips into hers, with the same bruising intensity he claimed her mouth, drenching himself in her through the thin fabric of his underwear. <em> Those really need to disappear. </em> Her fingers continued their violent path down his back to the waistband of his boxer briefs, the only barrier left between everything she wanted. <em> Wanted </em>, never needed. They danced around to the front of him and sought purchase. </p>
<p>Another moan, loud and throaty filled the space between them. </p>
<p>
  <em> My God. </em>
</p>
<p>“Off, off, <em> off, off </em>,” she was chanting when he finally released her mouth to move down to her neck, surely to mark her like she’d marked his back. It was going to be tit for tat with him. “OFF,” she clawed at his hips. He raised up and smirked at her. </p>
<p>“You just have to ask, Nes.” His lips curled to the side, “maybe say please.” </p>
<p>She held his gaze. <em> Please </em>. It was a chant in her head but she couldn’t say it. He saw it there, the challenge, the struggle, but this was a battle of wills. And Cassian was a seasoned general. </p>
<p>He ducked his head and nosed at her jaw, along her throat, peppering her skin with close-mouthed kisses. “Just say the word,” he ground into her again, not nearly the friction she wanted. His hands found her peaked breasts and traced her nipples, slow circles at first, then quick pinches accented by his teeth at her throat. There was no pattern, no guessing, no preparation. Every nerve ending was a live wire, screaming for his touch. </p>
<p>Nesta Archeron was going to die here. The flames in her belly were going to consume her and she was going to die at a high-priced sex club. And maybe she should. It might be worth it. Rhysand would never live it down. She wouldn’t sacrifice her pride for an orgasm. But, as his hips did another slow roll against hers and he scraped at her neck with his teeth, her resolve imploded.</p>
<p><em> “Please, </em>” she croaked. She felt his smile against her skin.</p>
<p>“What was that?”</p>
<p>“<em> Please </em>,” she said a little louder, still barely a whisper.</p>
<p>“That’s awfully quiet, Nesta,” he licked at her collarbone and made her eyes roll back into her head. “Makes me think you don’t really want it.” </p>
<p>“Please,” she repeated, her head thrashing, “<em> please </em> , <em> PLEASE </em>.”</p>
<p>“Okay, okay,” he pushed up to lean back on his heels above her. “No need to shout.” The tease in his voice forced an impatient growl from her. He cocked an eyebrow as he toyed with the elastic waistband on his underwear, slowly pulling it down below the defined V set low on his abdomen, revealing inch after inch of smooth, tanned skin, until finally they were gone and there was nothing left between them but sexual tension and a promise of release.</p>
<p>Her eyes raked down his muscled body, unable to keep her hand from reaching to touch the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, reaching lower. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. </p>
<p>“Uh, uh, princess,” her cheeks flamed as he lifted her hand to his lips and left a tender kiss on her palm, “it’s my turn.”</p>
<p>She blinked and his mouth was on her. His hair, tufted at the back of his head, bobbed between her legs as he lapped up the wetness that had been pooling since they started their games tonight. Since he first leaned against her door frame, if she was being honest with herself. His lips wrapped around her clit and when he moaned around her, she saw stars. Her toes curled. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair. Her knees bent to capture his head forever between her thighs but he caught them before she could crush him with the force of her pleasure. </p>
<p>It might have been hours, days. He held her spread open and licked and suckled and fucked her entrance with his tongue. Careful, slow strokes to stoke the fire ripping through her veins but not enough to send her to her peak. Her thighs began shaking; her fingers knotted into his hair and held his mouth against her. His name was a holy chant in this unholy place.</p>
<p>“<em> Cassian </em>,” she sobbed as a tear rolled down her temple and into her sweat-soaked hair. </p>
<p>He groaned and release ripped through her. Waves of pleasure locked her body in a silent scream, her head tilted back and her mouth wide open. He kept stroking her through it, his tongue undulating against her clit over and over as her body jerked involuntarily once, twice before relaxing completely, melting into a warm, soft puddle of flesh. </p>
<p>There were no words. No thoughts. Nothing inside her head except for the truth of it. No one has ever made her feel like that, forced that kind of pleasure from her. Her harsh breaths were the only sound in the room as Cassian traced patterns on her inner thigh. She blinked furiously, clearing her eyes of any emotions that might betray her. Looking down, she caught his eye and his answering smile made her forget her own name. </p>
<p>He was looking up at her, his cheeks pink from the heat and pressure between her thighs. His hair was a fucked out mess. He looked...<em> content </em>. As if her orgasm was all he wanted, like he could do it again and again and not care if she ever touched his cock even though she’d never wanted anything more in her life. </p>
<p>
  <em> But...what if he doesn't want that? </em>
</p>
<p>She tensed suddenly. He was an escort after all. This wasn’t his choice. <em> What if all of this is just an act? </em>She knew she shouldn’t care. She was a paying customer and shouldn’t care what he wanted. What his desires were. She should just take her pleasure, satiate her own desire, and leave. That had been the plan when she came here. Hell, she had just been acting when this all started. </p>
<p>Until he gave her the best orgasm of her entire fucking life. Until he called her on her bullshit, got naked, and got on his knees for her. Until he made her gasp his name and fucking cry for the privilege. </p>
<p>This was wrong. She shouldn’t—couldn’t—</p>
<p>
  <em> I don’t deserve this. </em>
</p>
<p>Her breath caught in her throat. <em> I need to get out of here </em>. </p>
<p>She sat up so quickly her head spun. Her fingers caught on the restraints attached to the headboard and she recoiled. <em> What am I doing? Why did I think this was a good idea? </em>Cassian jerked up from between her legs at the motion, the perfect window for her to rip her legs from his vicinity and swing them to the floor. </p>
<p>“Nesta, what’s wrong?” </p>
<p>She heard him, confused, still panting, but she couldn’t find the words to answer him. The panic was bitter, the taste in stark relief to Cassian’s tongue. <em> Stop! Where is my fucking dress? </em> Her head swiveled frantically. A slip of navy stuck out from under the armoire in the corner. She lurched forward, grabbing and pulling on the dress that barely covered her ass, left nothing to the imagination. <em> What have I done? </em></p>
<p>“<em> Nesta </em>, what is happening?” Cassian was louder this time. Loud enough to draw her eyes. He was leaning on one elbow, wide-eyed and still painfully hard. At this angle, she could see the angry red marks across his shoulder, darkening with dried blood in some places. A damning souvenir for what she had done. A claiming. </p>
<p>She couldn’t ignore the voice in her head. <em> A betrayal </em>.</p>
<p>“Was—” he sat up and leaned on his knees, “was it not good?” Some unfamiliar emotion danced across his eyes as he waited. She stared and stared and stared. “Did I—“ he kept hesitating, “did I not make you feel good?” </p>
<p>It was the doubt, thick and traitorous, in his voice that made her silently turn around and walk out the door. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oh y’all didn’t think was gonna be easy did you? *whispers* I promise I’m going to update again before five months IT WAS A BIG YIKES I KNOW</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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